


Shadows and Soda Cans

by vampireisthenewblack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Coming Untouched, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, PWP, Post-Season/Series 03A, Rimming, Season/Series 03A Spoilers, Voyeurism, pushy!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/pseuds/vampireisthenewblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What so many of Stiles' friends forget, is that while he's only human, he notices things they don't. They've got all these supernatural senses, they read fear and deception and arousal and dominance, but they don't look with their eyes. They rely too much on that other stuff, and don't see what's right in front of them.</p><p>[The one where Stiles knows Derek creeps into his bedroom at night and decides to give him a show.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows and Soda Cans

**Author's Note:**

> While I was supposed to be writing [my WIP](http://archiveofourown.org/works/941101), this happened. venis_envy catches my kiwiisms and I <3 her.
> 
> This is very slightly AU in that Derek and Cora did not leave at the end of Season 3. It's pretty much pure porn. I'm not sure whether to apologise at this point or say you're welcome.

Stiles isn't sure what's woken him. He lies in the dark, eyes still closed, until a sliver of a breeze tickles at the fingers pressed against the edge of his mattress and the blinds rattle just enough. 

He closed the window before bed. Pulled it shut, but didn't latch it, and all it takes to get it open from the outside is a claw in the seam.

Scott would have bounced onto his bed and shaken him until he woke. Isaac would have tripped over something and hissed his name until he opened his eyes. Cora would have knocked on the front door, even if it was past midnight. 

Stiles can't think of anyone else who would come here, and only one who would bother with the kind of stealth that Stiles should find wicked creepy, but doesn't. 

What so many of his friends forget, is that while he's only human, he notices things they don't. They've got all these supernatural senses, they read fear and deception and arousal and dominance, but they don't look with their eyes. They rely too much on that other stuff, and don't see what's right in front of them. 

Stiles feels Derek freeze when he brushes too close. He sees when Derek watches him, body motionless, eyes following every step, every action, every nervous twitch.

He considers feigning sleep, but is pretty sure that ship has already sailed. He considers calling Derek out for his Edward Cullen impersonation, but that would only piss him off and make him run. 

What Stiles _can_ fake, is not knowing that Derek is in the room with him. His rapid heartbeat and his heavy breaths can be explained away as waking from a bad dream, disoriented and confused. So he pulls himself up to sitting, rubs his eyes and tugs his hands through his hair before reaching for his phone. 

It's after three am, and Derek could have been here for hours. It doesn't matter. Stiles switches off the screen and scooches back down, pulling the covers up to his neck, spreading his knees a little, laying his palm on the inside of his thigh. 

He's already hard. Doesn't take much, never has, and the memory of Derek's eyes on him was enough. Derek's never going to do anything on his own, Stiles has known for a long time that he would have to be the one to start something. He's just been waiting for the opportunity. 

Stiles' erection tents his pajama pants, and he rubs his hand over the fabric covered head and sighs. He lets it out, as if he's alone in the room, as if no one could hear, then he slides his hand inside his pants and gives his dick a couple of teasing jerks. 

Maybe he's got exhibitionist tendencies, but it's thrilling, knowing that there's a person in the room with him, someone who can smell everything, can hear everything. Maybe it's just because Stiles knows it's Derek. Whatever it is, there's soon a soggy patch of cloth over the head of his dick as it leaks copious amounts of precome every time it gives a twitch.

Stiles wriggles out of his pants, tosses them out onto the floor, hoping that the scent tortures Derek, at least just a little bit. He sits up, peeling his T-shirt off, and then squirms back down into his blankets. He's made a tent with his knees, years of practice informing him of the best ways to keep the sheets clean and still give maximum access to his most erogenous zones.

He considers himself a bit of an expert when it comes to jerking off. He can do it in a few strokes if necessary, but he much prefers to draw it out, to paint a picture in his mind and take that fantasy all the way through to orgasm. This has got to be one of those times, so he starts slow, eyes closed, hand sliding over his cock in measured strokes.

If Derek would just come out of that dark corner it could be his hand on Stiles' cock, arm thrust underneath the blankets, their mouths pressed together. With his free hand, Stiles traces his own mouth with a finger, then licks his fingertip and drags it against his lower lip. He lets out a soft moan as he imagines Derek's tongue as he presses in with a finger, scratches his nails against his chin and cheek because he can't remember the last time Derek shaved.

Derek would tease him, and so Stiles slips his hand off his cock and squeezes his balls before slipping lower and dragging a finger over his hole. He shivers, puts pressure on that spot, wanting something more, something inside, just a little stretch. A little precome allows him to get his fingertip in, just enough to make him wonder what it would feel like to have Derek fuck him.

Stiles is no stranger to shoving his own fingers up his ass, but that's as far as he's ever gone. He's thought about buying a dildo, just so he can know what it feels like to really be fucked, but all his fantasies involve the real thing.

He could ask. Right now, he could ask Derek to show himself, he could outright ask to be fucked and know what it feels like. Some instinct, though, tells him that Derek's not ready, that he'd refuse to admit he was hiding, or flat out run. So Stiles remains silent, and reaches behind him for lube.

He slicks his hand and strokes it over his cock, then switches hands. The blankets slip over his face when he twists to reach behind himself, so he shoves them off altogether, kicking them to the end of the bed because he might as well give Derek a good show while he's at it. It's so tempting to let his eyes slip toward the darkest corner of his bedroom, but he cannot tip his hand. Derek thinks he's hidden, thinks he's watching something he shouldn't be, is probably torturing himself right now, but Stiles has to show him.

Stiles lies on his side, facing out into the room. He keeps his eyes closed so they can't inadvertently look for a figure in the darkness, so he can't give himself away, and he pumps his cock slowly with his left hand.

With his right, he reaches behind himself, arching his back because he's going to want to go as deep as he can. He presses first, feeling the resistance with two fingers, and then pushes them both into himself at once.

He moves slow, but it doesn't stop him groaning when he penetrates himself. It's intense, not quite pain, but pressure and a stretch that makes him shake. Still, he pushes in, as far as his posture will accommodate, breathing through the sensation, squeezing his cock to distract himself just a little until he adjusts.

Stiles imagines Derek behind him, arms tight around his chest, held close like he's precious, like he's wanted. He imagines how Derek's cock will feel up against him, hot and hard and thick and pushing inside. He pulls his fingers out, presses them back in, but he can't get deep enough.

He repositions himself, getting up on his knees, falling forward onto his shoulders, face turned toward the room. He's got one hand beneath him, still slowly teasing his dick, the other behind, and this time he pushes three fingers into his ass.

He could take Derek's cock now. He could call out, beg, and he's close to doing it, panting and moaning and letting out little cut off whimpers with each thrust of his fingers, with each stroke of his dick. "I want—" he gasps out loud, before pressing his face into the mattress. He wants Derek's hands on his hips, fingers pressing bruises into his skin. He wants to be filled up, stretched wide open, to feel an ache deep inside. Only with his voice muffled, does he let himself ask for what he really needs. "Derek," he moans, but it's unintelligible.

His hand moves faster on his dick, he pounds his fingers into his ass, wanting it to be Derek who fucks into him, Derek's cock, that he's never seen but imagines is long and thick and uncut. He needs more than he's getting, and has to lift his head as he contorts himself to get more reach.

His fingers slide in farther, and his ass clenches around them in little spasms. He forgets that he has an audience, forgets everything except for the stretch and the need to come. "Derek," he groans, and "fuck me, come in me", and imagines Derek pounding in so hard and so deep that he can feel it in his guts.

When he comes, his ass tightens, hard, quick. He jams his fingers as deep as he can go, fights against his own body trying to force himself out. The first spurt from his cock streaks up his chest, the rest stains the sheets, and he doesn't care. He gasps Derek's name, and then whispers it as his body shakes with aftershocks. While he's still clenching, he reaches back with messy fingers and pushes as much of his own come into his ass as he can. 

He only wishes it was Derek's come inside him, filling him up, oozing out of him as the final shudders make him twitch and squeeze.

***

Stiles is convinced that Derek is different after that. His glances linger a little more, and when Stiles brushes up against him in the loft one day he lets out a little gasp of a breath that even Stiles can hear and makes Scott's head jerk up to see what's wrong. 

They're debating what to do about a wandering omega that found his way into Beacon Hills. Technically, Stiles shouldn't be here, he's not a werewolf, but he is best friends with the new alpha, so he invites himself and no one argues. 

Once they've done what they came here to do, they all start wandering off, and Stiles is always the last to go. When the door closes for the last time behind Scott, Stiles is still stacking soda cans on the window sill.

He fills a pane of glass with cans and whoops, throwing his hands into the air in victory.

When he gets no reaction, he turns. Derek's folding maps, stacking them in a pile, edges aligned perfectly, and for a guy who used to bed down in a burned out abandoned house, he's paying some serious attention to detail.

"Cans?" Stiles says, wandering around the edge of the table, putting himself in Derek's line of sight. "I filled a pane."

Derek picks up the maps, bangs the bottom edge against the table and examines the alignment, twisting the stack this way and that. "Blocks the light."

Stiles turns and looks at his single pane of glass, way down in the bottom right corner, covered by stacked soda cans. Then he looks up at the enormous window, the one that takes up most of the outside wall of Derek's loft, made up of many, many panes of glass. "Yeah," he says. "I can see how that would be a problem. Ten years worth of soda and you might have some serious light deficiency in here."

"Stiles," Derek grinds out through clenched teeth, and it's not just frustration. There's real anguish there, real pain.

Stiles knows that if he said it out loud he'd sound too confident, but Derek's pining. Derek wants him. Maybe he's telling himself that he's a creeper, or that Stiles is the worst kind of jailbait, but Stiles doesn't care about any of that. He's older than his barely seventeen years because of what he's been through, so what if Derek is technically nine years older? He acts like a goddamn three year old sometimes. "Get over it," he says.

It could have come out snappish, but it doesn't. His voice is quiet, gentle, and as he speaks he reaches out and takes the stack of maps out of Derek's hands, sets them back down on the table. "Whatever's stopping you, get over it. I'm not going to say no, but I think you know that already."

Derek's head jerks up. His eyes are wide and his lips are pressed together in a hard line. "What?"

Stiles pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the table. He wriggles his ass just a little bit closer. "Dude, you're obvious. To me, anyway. I've got no idea how the rest of them don't pick up on it, but I guess you're not sneaking into their bedrooms at night."

Derek's jaw drops, and his eyes flick toward the door, as if he's contemplating flight. "I don't know—"

"Yeah, you do." Stiles reaches out, twists his fingers into the front of Derek's shirt and pulls him over. "Tell me what you saw, Derek. Tell me what you heard."

Derek snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head. Even as he does, though, his eyelids droop and he leans a fraction closer.

"I wanted you to come out of the corner," Stiles says, and he loosens his grip, slides the flat of his hand down over Derek's chest, lets it settle just above his belt. "I wanted you to touch me, put your fingers in me." He pushes his hand down, over the front of Derek's jeans where he's hard and straining against his fly. "I wanted you to fuck me."

Derek opens his eyes. "Stiles," he says again, and he sounds utterly wrecked. "I'm sorry."

Stiles lifts his leg up onto the table, squirms sideways, and drops it down on the other side of Derek. "Don't be," he says, shoving his ass to the edge, pulling Derek against him by the hips. "I want it. I want you. Do it. Do everything I can't do to myself."

Derek groans and puts his hands on Stiles' waist, holding just a little too tight. He leans forward, drops his head to sniff at Stiles' throat. "I waited until you were asleep," he whispers, and Stiles has to strain his ears to hear it. "I only wanted to get closer, the scent, I wanted to remember it." Then he pulls Stiles' hand away from where it's hooked into the waistband of his jeans, lifts it, presses his nose to Stiles' wrist. "I couldn't help myself. I had to taste..." His tongue darts out and licks at the inside of Stiles' wrist.

"Oh my god." Stiles' jeans were already impossibly tight. Now they're hurting. "Did you lick up my come? Oh my god." 

Derek drops his head to Stiles' shoulder. "I shouldn't have...shouldn't be—"

"Fuck it," Stiles hisses. "Fuck that." His free hand tugs at Derek's belt, fumbling and failing in his hurry. "Help me, I need to touch your cock, see it." 

Derek grabs Stiles' wrist in a tight grip. "I can't." 

Stiles shakes his head and struggles, but he can't get out of Derek's hands. "Yeah, you can. We both want it, I know you want it." 

"No." Derek lets him go and pushes away from the table. 

"What? Why? You were in my room. You licked up my come. You're hard." Stiles can't understand it, because all that and a willing partner? Derek's not that noble, he's sure. 

"I can't just fuck you. I need more."

"More." Stiles frowns. "Okay. So we'll do more. I'll blow you. Make out with you. We'll do all the things."

Derek looks as though he's been slapped. "No, Stiles." He turns to face the window, but looks down at the corner where one pane of glass is completely obscured by stacked soda cans. "I want that. Your stupid, obsessive little projects. I want to hear you prattling on about nothing. You've got no filter, and everything you think comes out of your mouth, and it drives me crazy, but I like it, and I want it." 

"But you've already got that," Stiles says. "Why do you think I'm always the last one to leave? Why do you think I come to these werewolf-only things? To hear you all bickering amongst yourselves because too fucking many of you used to be alpha's and Scott's too diplomatic to shut you down? No. And I do so have a filter, it's just set really low, okay? There's a lot I think, but don't say, and most of it is you. Like how much I respect what you did to save Cora. And how it broke my heart to hear about Paige. And Boyd. Fuck. I wanted to... I wanted..."

He stops then, because he does have a filter, and he's so used to it kicking in long before now. He doesn't want to start crying, not over how much he wanted to hold Derek that night, to wrap himself around him and protect him from all the things that could hurt him. But it's too late, and he's blinking back tears. 

Derek turns back from the window and steps up to the table. He puts a hand out, sliding his palm up Stiles' thigh. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" Stiles wipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand and pastes a grin on his face. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Then Derek's kissing him, hand pressed to the back of his neck, pulling him in. And it's not the dirty hot kiss with tongue and spit and teeth that Stiles has been fantasizing about, it's slow and just the barest touch of lips, a tiny dart of tongue to wet Stiles' lower lip.

"You looked so fucking good," Derek whispers, his breath warming Stiles' neck. "Smelled even better. It was so hard not to move. Not to touch you, fuck you."

"I wanted you to," Stiles says, swaying a little, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. "Should have fucked me, wanted you to fuck me." He searches blindly for Derek's lips, fingers tugging at his clothes, getting nowhere. "Please just fuck me."

Derek's hands move over Stiles' torso, pushing up his shirt, skin on skin and lips on his throat, desperate and hurried. "You just turned seventeen," he says, but shoves Stiles back, lays him out on the table and there's that kiss Stiles has been wishing for, filthy and wet, desperation and bitten lips and gasping for air between.

"I know," Stiles gasps. "I was there. We had cake. It doesn't matter. I could die before I turn eighteen, any of us could, so why? I'm not waiting." He slips a hand between them, and this time, gets Derek's belt undone, flicks open the top button of his jeans.

"Are you trying to get me arrested?" Still, Derek thumbs open the button of Stiles' jeans, has Stiles' dick in his hand before Stiles even has his Derek's zipper down.

"Oh god," Stiles moans, jerking his hips as he tries to thrust into Derek's hand, his own quarry forgotten. "I'll take care of my dad," he says. "Once he knows we're together—"

"We're together?"

Stiles looks down, because Derek's been kissing his way down Stiles' front and now he's stopped. "Isn't that what all the 'I want more' stuff is about? I mean, if there's feelings... Are there feelings? Because I've got—ohmygod."

Derek's mouth slides down the length of Stiles' dick, and Stiles can't think after that, can't care about his feelings or Derek's feelings or what his dad will do when he tells him that he's dating a man nine years older. And he hopes that they _are_ dating, because dating means this, and it means kissing, and it hopefully means falling asleep wrapped around Derek, and waking up wrapped up in him, and an excuse to be near him, a reason to hang around here and fill window pane after window pane with stacked soda cans.

And hopefully it means that he'll get to feel Derek inside him, fucking into him, coming in him. "God, fuck," he says, fingers threading into Derek's hair and trying to push him off. "Don't wanna come and you're gonna make me come, Derek."

But Derek doesn't stop. His head bobs on Stiles' dick, cheeks hollowed, tongue swirling, pressing, coaxing Stiles closer. He knows he's wasting his time trying to hold on, because he can feel Derek's determination, still, he throws a hand out to grip the edge of the table, as if some kind of physical leverage will help.

The perfect stack of maps goes fluttering and rustling to the floor, and Stiles thinks that will distract Derek, that it'll break his focus, give Stiles a chance to change the direction of what's happening here.

It doesn't. Derek doesn't falter, he doesn't miss a beat. It's Stiles who loses it, too concerned about what Derek's _not_ doing to hold back, and then he's coming, stomach clenching, making him double up as he spills into Derek's mouth.

He lays back, stares at the ceiling as Derek pulls off. "You suck," he says, vaguely aware that Derek's wandered away, but not yet having the presence of mind to wonder where, or when he's coming back.

He's not gone long, and then he's tugging Stiles' jeans down his legs, and Stiles' shoes hit the floor, and it's cold in here. "You need to insulate those windows," Stiles mutters. "Cover them with something."

Derek pulls him up, drags his shirt off over his head. Stiles shivers and presses himself close because Derek's warm, and he's still dressed, and his lips are... God. So nice.

"Yeah," Derek whispers. "There's feelings." Another kiss, slow this time as Derek licks deep into Stiles' mouth before he pushes him back down to the table again. He grabs Stiles by the waist, pulls him to the edge of the table until his ass is practically hanging off the edge, then he drops down to his knees.

"What are you doing?" Stiles whispers, lifting his head to look down. Derek puts his hands underneath Stiles' knees and lifts both his legs, then his tongue licks into the crease of Stiles' thigh.

"Oh my god," Stiles whispers. "What—?"

"Fuck, it almost killed me, seeing you with your fingers, stretching yourself open, fucking yourself with them." He dips his head, drags his tongue up the crack of Stiles' ass, over his hole. "And when you were sleeping, and I could see, fuck, I wanted to touch, taste. I wanted to dip my tongue in there and taste you, feel how fucking hot you were." 

Stiles' stomach clenches up, and he moans. His cock twitches, tries to get hard again, and it's not going to take much. "Fuck," he says, pulling his knees into his chest. "Please."

Derek's fingers press hard into Stiles' hips, and he drags his tongue against Stiles' hole. It feels warm, slick and slippery with spit, and Stiles wants to squirm into it, wants pressure, wants to feel Derek's tongue pushing into him. He can't move, though, feet in the air, palms sweaty and slipping on the surface of the table. Then there's the pressure he wants, finally, Derek's pointed tongue wriggling against him.

Stiles grunts as it pushes in, and physically it feels like when Stiles' slips his own finger into his ass, but it's Derek's tongue, and he's hard again, and he just wants _more_.

Derek's tongue fucks into him, slow at first, in as deep as he can go, all the way out before he plunges it back inside again, stretching Stiles open all over again until he's moaning and crying out and clawing at the backs of his own knees. "More, fuck," he gasps. "Harder, do it fucking harder, I need..."

And Derek growls and jams it in farther, faster, like he wants to climb inside. Stiles swears, curses, lets out a litany of words that mean nothing and make no sense until they devolve completely into grunts and moans and he feels as though he's coming apart. He doesn't want Derek to stop, ever, but he can't go on, not without losing his sanity.

Derek falters, pauses, slows to a quick darting in and out, but there's a reason, because then his lips are on the inside of Stiles' thigh and two fingers, slick and wet, go deep into Stiles and press up, finding his prostate immediately.

Stiles' shoulders come off the table and slam back down. He comes hard, untouched, dick jerking on his belly as streaks of come spatter up to his chest.

"So tight, Stiles," Derek says. "So good. Can't wait to get my fucking cock in you." 

"Do it," Stiles rasps, throat hurting as if he's been yelling. He's limp, boneless, exhausted, but the fingers still stretching him open aren't enough. "You've gotta fuck me, Derek."

"One more," Derek says, drawing his fingers back, pushing in again.

Derek's fingers are thicker than Stiles' and it's more than Stiles has ever had inside him before, and he's still shaking and clenching as Derek twists three fingers into him. "Now, fuck," he moans, reaching for Derek, getting a handful of hair and pulling.

Derek growls and bats his hand away, but he rises, sliding his fingers out and leaving Stiles empty and aching. "I'm going to fuck you," he says, and grabs both of Stiles' arms and pins them above his head with one hand. "Do you want me to fuck you, Stiles? Is that still what you want?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes." Stiles balls his fists and wriggles, but he can't move. "Please. I just want you in me, want to feel it."

"I'll make sure you feel it," Derek breathes.

Then there's a blunt pressure at Stiles' hole. He hasn't even seen Derek's cock yet, and he twists his hand, needing to get free, to feel Derek pushing inside. "Please," he whimpers, and Derek lets him free.

He pulls his knees back into his chest, lifts his ass up off the surface of the table and reaches down. "Imagined this in me," he says, guiding it in as Derek pushes forward.

Derek keeps going until his hips meet Stiles' ass. Stiles' hand is pressed to Derek's belly, fingers splayed out, holding him there because the pressure is intense and there's an ache deep, deep inside him that he never imagined.

"You okay?" Derek grinds out. His teeth are clenched, and his hands as he holds Stiles above the knees are shaking.

Stiles breathes, deep and slow. "Yeah. Just...a minute. God."

Derek bends at the waist, fitting himself between Stiles' thighs. "Feels so good," he says, his lips a hair's breadth from Stiles' mouth. "You feel so good inside."

All Stiles can get out is a hum of agreement as he tips his head up to press his open mouth against Derek's.

"I need to move, Stiles." Derek licks Stiles' lower lip, sucks it into his mouth and then releases. "I can't..."

"Yeah." Stiles rocks his hips up to show his willingness. "Yeah, fuck me, Derek, move."

Derek pulls back, eliciting a deep, primal groan from Stiles, before thrusting back in, long and slow. "Fuck, yeah, Stiles." He puts his hands on either side of Stiles' face, his fingertips in Stiles' hair. He kisses Stiles and rolls his hips, long and slow. "Is this good?" he asks. "Is this what you want?"

"Yeah." Stiles nods and then arches his neck, and shivers when Derek presses blunt, human teeth to his throat. "More."

Derek bites down harder and jerks his hips, fucking into Stiles hard and deep. "Tell me what you want." He pushes himself up, grabs Stiles by the ankles and shoves back in. "Like this?"

"Fuck," Stiles gasps as he's shoved backward. "Yeah, oh my god, yeah." Derek slams into him, again and again. "You're fucking me on a table, holy crap." His fingers twist into Derek's shirt, push it up to get to bare skin. "Take it off."

Stopping only long enough to take his shirt off, Derek drops it onto the floor and grabs Stiles by the waist, pulling him back down onto his cock. "We could move. D'you wanna move?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Let me turn over."

Derek pulls out, lifts Stiles off the table and onto the floor before turning him and pressing a hand between his shoulder blades and bending him over the edge of the table. He pushes back in, slow and easy, fingers locked around Stiles' hips.

Stiles has more control like this. With his feet on the ground and his arms and chest pressed against the table, he can thrust back, he can show Derek what he wants and how he wants it. He doesn't have to ask. He shoves back, savoring Derek's groan and the fingernails on his hips that feel just a little too sharp. "Like that," he says. "Hard, like that. And fast. Just fucking pound me."

"Stiles," Derek groans, but then he jerks back and thrusts back in hard. He does it again, picking up the pace, until Stiles has to dig his fingernails into the wood just to hold on.

He's sore inside, a low, aching throb, but he doesn't want it to end, not until Derek's done with him, not until Derek's filled him to overflowing. "Come in me," he says, because he doesn't need to come again. He's only half hard, and not interested in coaxing his dick at all. He just wants to feel Derek pumping into him, leaking out afterward. "Hurry up, I need you to come in me."

"Shit, Stiles," Derek gasps, and his thrusts become erratic, fast. He jerks into him, his pace no longer measured and careful, now it's just a means to an end.

Stiles holds as still as he can, legs spread wide, one hand on his ass, just waiting. He wants to feel it dripping out of him, wants to feel it on his fingers. He slides a finger down the crack of his ass, to where Derek's cock pistons into him, rubs around his stretched rim with his fingers.

"Fuck, oh fuck," Derek gasps, and he falters, then jams his cock in deep. "So fucking— _Stiles_."

Stiles can feel it, like a twitch inside him, like a heartbeat, as Derek fills him. Then the pulse slowly stops, but Derek stays there, laid over Stiles' back, skin slick with sweat. "I wanna feel it, please," he whispers, tries to shuffle forward, to wriggle off Derek's dick.

Derek hauls himself up, pulls out, and then Stiles' fingers are there, feeling the squeaky slickness of Derek's come, feeling his hole close up and squeeze a few drops out. He pushes a finger in, and he's full, all warm and sloshy inside. "Oh, yeah," he moans, and then his cock is fully hard. "So good."

"Dirty little... Oh my god, Stiles," Derek murmurs, and he sweeps Stiles' hand out of the way, pushes his softening cock back into the mess, gives it a few lazy thrusts.

Stiles feels come ooze out of him, feels it drip down the inside of his thigh. "That," he says. "Oh my god, that's fucking perfect, I love it. Do it again."

Derek does it until his cock is so soft he can't get it back in, and then he lays back down on Stiles' back and presses kisses to his shoulders. "You're kinda kinky."

Stiles shrugs, as much as he is able with Derek's dead weight on top of him. "Duh. Do I freak you out?"

A low laugh rumbles through Derek's chest. "That was the single hottest thing I've ever seen in my life. Counting your little show the other night. I hope I get to see it again."

Stiles cranes his neck, hurts his eyeballs trying to look at Derek. "I thought we'd already figured that out."

"Just checking." Derek straightens up, pulls Stiles to his feet. There's come streaked down the insides of both of his thighs, slippery and slick when he presses them together. "Shower, come on."

Stiles whines and resists. Then it'll be gone, and he'll just have the memory.

"You're not getting into my bed like that." Derek tugs him toward the bathroom. "I'll fill you up again while we're in there," he promises.

Somewhat mollified, Stiles follows. "So I'm staying the night?"

"As often as possible," Derek says.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed reading, please hit the [Kudos ♥] button.
> 
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